


tomorrow will be better

by okropnyromans



Series: of what has fallen (and what will rise again) [3]
Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, Hurt No Comfort, Memory Loss, Mentions of Blood, Mentions of Stabbing, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Suicidal Thoughts, Unreliable Narrator, at least not yet wink, fundy is a fox with human traits because nothing makes sense anyway, i got lost somewhere in the middle of writing this so bear with me please, not really?? itll be explained, president wilbur baby!!!! but not too much, sbi are a family
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-05
Updated: 2021-01-09
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:41:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27888454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/okropnyromans/pseuds/okropnyromans
Summary: the house is empty and cold all around him, and the only thing he has left are memories.or, wilbur tries to piece together the reason for his fall from grace.
Relationships: Floris | Fundy & Wilbur Soot, Minor or Background Relationship(s), Niki | Nihachu & Wilbur Soot, Wilbur Soot & Phil Watson, Wilbur Soot & Technoblade, Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit, maybe except for implied sally and wilbur ...?, nothing romantic tho - Relationship
Series: of what has fallen (and what will rise again) [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2029387
Kudos: 54





	1. day 1

wilbur wakes up in a bed that’s way too comfortable for what he’s gotten used to in the past few years. it’s soft in the sense that gives him a sensation of sinking right into the mattress and warmth is curling around him under the bedsheets spread over him (he thinks he hasn’t felt so warm in ages).

what wakes him up along with that is an extremely loud sound of two metal pieces being hit against each other.

“WAKEY WAKEY, WILBY!” a voice yells out and suddenly all peace is gone, why is this even happening. he groans quietly and opens his eyes, owlishly blinking as lazy sun rays reach his sight. the metal noise rings out again and he takes the pillow from underneath his head, stuffing it to his face. 

“what the fuck do you want?” he asks grouchily, no real heat behind the words. he’s just so sleepy. no energy for dealing with screaming this early. 

“it’s noon, bitch. dad said you have to eat something,” replies the voice innocently. wilbur can clearly hear the devilish grin in it. 

he blindly takes the pillow and throws it at that goddamn child. 

“hey! have some respect for-”

“alright, you can get out now,” wilbur finally turns his head and looks at tommy standing in all his childish glory in the middle of the room, two pans held in hands and mildly offended frown between his brows. 

something in his chest pounds at the sight, crying for his attention. he dismisses it, as easy as pushing away a few curls that have fallen into his eyes. 

instead of replying, tommy flashes him a quick smile, all negativeness gone, and dashes out of the door. along with him leaves an ounce of warmth that’d lingered in the air, something other than the way heat curled around him, something going deeper to feelings his fuzzy memory can’t seem to process right now. 

the wooden floor is cold on his feet as he slips from under the covers and finally gets a good look at the room he’s found himself in, the room that seems to (used to?) be his. 

it’s messy — there are clothes scattered around; sweaters stacked on an armchair in an unorganized pile, pants sprawled on the floor, socks dangling from ajar drawers. the desk stuffed in the nearest corner is covered in stacks of books, some open and some closed, along with paper sheets. a few of them are lying crumpled up at the chair’s legs. unwashed plates and mugs give out a stale scent that itches at wilbur’s nose. it seems no one has cleaned up here in a long time. 

he stretches his memory as far as he can, but comes up empty. he doesn’t know why he is here. he doesn’t recall this place ever being his. the cosiness of it, though, the bursts of feelings that are like strangers in the swirls of remembrance and forgetfulness, makes him think that maybe he could get used to it. 

the door creaks when he pushes it open. walking out of his room feels like entering a completely new world. what in his  _ safe haven  _ was warm and comforting, that in the hallway feels like icicles spearing right through him, filling him with coldness that just doesn’t go away. 

wilbur's steps echo in the house void of any other soul. all that’s there are photos emitting so much happiness and carefreeness they almost feel alive, smiling at him from frames hanging on the walls all around. he sees himself, hands put up around two boys shorter than him, one of them being tommy. playing his guitar, sat next to a campfire. clumsily holding a wooden sword, seemingly sparring with someone. he looks at those pictures and he knows they’re real, because seeing them makes his heart ache with such longing he dreads yet welcomes at the same time. the memories of ever taking them are gone, no matter how hard he tries to reach them.

one photo catches his attention. he stops in his tracks and takes a closer look at it. one photo which’s frame is dusted, just like all the others’, so plain amongst them all. it shows him (almost as old as he is right now. how long ago was that?) with loose clothes on and a beanie (this one he briefly remembers giving to someone. probably tommy). he’s holding hands with a piglin hybrid shorter than him by a head. the piglin is wearing a snow cloak, rich fur adorning its shoulders and snow white cape blowing in the wind behind him. there’s a crown sitting on top of his head (since when is wilbur friends with royalty?). both of them are widely smiling, the grin exposing piglin’s shining tusks. 

what wilbur notices firstly is the way his hold on the piglin’s hand seems tight as if he’s holding onto a lifeline, and the joyous glimmer in his eyes (it reminds him of tears).

he looks away and doesn’t dare turn his gaze back, deciding to finally go downstairs and get the promised breakfast. 

as he traverses along the stretching hallway, passing millions and millions of doors, his bare feet falling on the floor in a manner that sounds heavy. in a way, it’s almost like techno’s leather boots stomping around on wooden panels.

_ …techno? _

“hallo,” is what comes in response, even if he hadn’t said anything. on the other side of the hallway, just right next to the stairs, there stands technoblade, an empty plate held in one hand, the other one closing a door behind him. “fancy seein’ you here.”

wilbur’s face immediately brightens. the smile he saw in the photo flashes before his eyes, but the person standing in front of him isn’t smiling like the ever happy piglin. right now it’s more of barely raising the corner of his mouth. “phil tried to wake you up five times or somethin’ before he asked tommy to do it. you must’ve been real tired.” says techno. his voice sounds sleepy, as if he only just woke up, but that might be his usual slouchiness. 

“yeah. i had a crazy dream,” wilbur laughs. maybe he’ll tell it to techno later today.

he feels light, right now. like the blizzard has finally stopped and there’s some warmth entering now, once again embracing him whole. it’s safe. it’s familiar. wilbur wants it to stay. alas, things don’t seem to go his way.

techno doesn’t say anything more, he just waves a hand behind his back and sprints down the stairs, heavy boots echoing through the walls that once again are freezing cold. 

the warmth leaves, one by one, and wilbur feels more alone each time. 

in the steps of his brother, he cautiously makes his way downstairs. the quietness has once again taken up the entire house and he’s very, very lonely. 

he thinks he knows these stairs. they’re the same ones he used to run away from techno or chase down tommy and tubbo or sneak into his room at three in the morning. he remembers the first time he’s carried fundy up here, all the way to the rooftop. he wanted to show his son the enthralling sight of stars he’s always adored so much, ever since he was first brought to this house himself. even when his son wouldn’t know what’s happening, because he was two and all he did was crawl around the garden and pick out worms from the ground. 

it’s a distinct memory that’s closer to being a feeling. 

he walks all the steps down and when his feet touch the floor tiles, the world goes bright again. the only sound to be heard is sizzling coming from the kitchen and that is exactly where wilbur is headed. 

his dad is standing in front of the stove, humming an arrhythmic tune as he flips something frying on a pan (is this the same one tommy used to wake wilbur up?). he turns around and smiles so, so warmly wilbur thinks he’s going to melt. a sudden burst of love, a quick seize of panic. the distinction between them is so small right now, he can’t tell the reason. 

“how are you feeling?” asks phil, ever so gentle, the father wilbur wants to be grateful for, but the pain in his stomach has him doubled over himself and when he coughs into the palm of his hand all the feels is dust in his lungs and a metallic scent of blood coming from nowhere and everywhere at the same time. he wants to reach out to phil and selfishly ask him for help but the man just regards him with an eyebrows raised and says, “you asked for it, wilbur, didn’t you?” and he crumbles right where he stands. 

the floor is welcoming. cold tiles prickle at his skin and the cold seems to be getting inside him with every inhale, freezing his heart until it’s hard as a rock. he puts his forehead on the ground.

he wants to sob but it’s just so cold his tears feel frozen, unmoving in his attempts to let them flow. there’s nowhere to go, in this blizzard of memories he can’t pinpoint, this mess of what’s true and what’s not. he curls up where he is and thinks,  _ tomorrow will be better _ .


	2. day 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> time passes in the very same house that once used to be alive. wilbur craves the normalcy that's been left behind in his past.
> 
> tw: brief suicidal thoughts, mentions of stabbing, blood and death, descriptions of intrusive thoughts

it feels wrong, the house being so empty and silent. wilbur thinks it wasn’t meant for loneliness. dust setting on windowsills, cushions that nobody dared to pick up lying on the living room’s floor, shoes of various sizes and styles neatly organized on a shelf next to the front door, they all seem to stand out like a sore thumb. with only wilbur here, quiet and tamed, closed off from even himself, everything is lacking in a way that fills his stomach with dreadful emptiness, eating him away. 

he stretches his legs out on the couch he’s sitting on and the emptiness prolongs further. it’s a crushing feeling, one that makes him want to curl up and slowly rot, die in the very same position, to disappear and become forgotten (because this is exactly what he deserves, he convinces himself). maybe he would, if it wasn’t for the fear that threatens to swallow him whole whenever he as much as thinks about it. 

he knows he doesn’t deserve the second chance he’s been given. he’s just… not sure why. memory is coming back to him at a very slow pace, almost as if teasing him. all that he’s sure of is that he had done something terrible and there’s no telling if he’ll ever be able to redeem himself from it. he has a feeling, though, that forgiveness is not something he should be thinking about. 

he remembers bits and snippets, but not all of them are what he’s so desperate to recollect. it’s all a mess in his mind, a storm that caught him in the midst of it, throwing him sideways like he’s nothing but a flowing pile of ash that has yet to come back to life. 

a matte notebook is what helps him keep track of every single piece of past that reveals itself unannounced from time to time and it goes like this:

day one:   
dying  
phil stabbing me to death with a sword  
my brothers?  
the lack of air in my lungs  
fundy

day two:  
tommy being annoying  
a large explosion  
cold

day three:  
the smell of bread  
techno giving me advice  
eating breakfast with my family  
spending time with dad and tommy

day four:   
music  
war  
tubbo (tommy’s best friend)

it makes his hands twitch, urging him to yell and smash a window and endlessly cry. some days are worse and some try to be better but no matter how he looks at it, he’s not getting anywhere.

it would be way easier if phil just told him something instead of pressing his lips together and glancing pensively at him every five minutes.

they’re sitting at the dining table, phil on the far end and wilbur two seats away from him. he’s trying to make himself believe that there’s nothing to be afraid of but whenever he looks at his dad all he sees is hands and robes stained with blood and a daunting look on his face, the posture of someone who has killed and who immensely regrets it. 

so wilbur stays away and keeps his quiet. 

“i’m sorry i came by so late. things are very hectic and i couldn’t leave for a while. can’t promise i’ll be able to stay for long, too. i brought you some stuff you might need and i’ll take care of food so you don’t have to bother for a while, okay?” phil’s words are calculated but his tone still carries the same softness. wilbur isn’t sure how long has it been because it feels like six years but his notebook is pointing at three mere days that are enough to throw him off from the carousel of he’s going to kill me again and i should be dead anyway and oh god i don’t want to die. 

his fingers only drum on the table in response. he doesn’t trust himself to speak right now, too scared of suffocating with only coldness inside of him when he tries to choke out something other than a pathetic sob. 

his dad goes to stand up and he inwardly braces himself which is unreasonable, you’re safe here, he’s not going to hurt you— 

“do you want me to give you a hug?” phil asks after a while of standing with one hand still on the chair while wilbur tries to stop the antagonizing trainwreck of his thoughts. 

a hug.

it sounds like something from another world. mesmerizing and blood-curdling at the same time, calling out and trying to entrap him. he supposed he would like that, or any other resemblance of normalcy that wouldn’t make his mind scream in what feels like agony but in fact is just a cry for someone to understand. 

he shakes his head and phil deflates. maybe he would feel bad, some other time, but now he’s too busy battling the sensation of his stomach being sliced open and stabbed without mercy ad nauseam, a routine of this very image reappearing before his eyes and manifesting onto his body so many times it just makes him awfully tired. 

but his dad doesn’t get it (probably because he can’t be bothered to tell him. it’s too hard to explain and he’s sure phil wouldn’t fully understand it, anyway. he thinks he prefers to go through it alone), surely thinking about how terrible wilbur is and what a bad idea it was to let him live after all.

oh the sweet irony. 

“you shouldn’t be pushin’ him away,” drawls a voice beside him but he doesn’t as much as flinch. “y’know it’s not goin’ to end well, anyway. don’t’ya?” he knows. he knows because technoblade sitting with his legs crossed on a creaky chair, hair pulled up in a messy ponytail and a tired expression, trying to give him advice on communication with their dad is so familiar. he knows because it all has happened before but he’s repeating the same mistakes over and over. 

they’ll never get anywhere like that and it will all be his fault. 

somewhere in-between of wilbur’s pretend (and very one-sided) conversation with techno, phil finishes his work and leaves the house in the all alone state once again. all that’s left after him is a fridge stocked with food that should last for a lifetime and a note left on the table, along with a new communicator. 

shaky hands reach up for the paper but stop midway. perhaps he’s too scared to read what dad has written for him. perhaps his throbbing head and aching stomach are just excuses to postpone facing the world for a while longer. 

it doesn’t matter, though. he stays in his place staring out of the kitchen window at fields spreading out on and on outside. he stays there until the sky goes black and he’s sitting in crushing darkness, not moving an inch. that day, he adds something he wishes to cherish forever to his list. 

...

...but that was days ago and now wilbur is alone again, everything so unreal yet almost tangible. phil’s note and communicator still lying untouched in the same spot. 

sometimes he think he can hear the communicator buzzing. he can’t bring himself to reach out to it and read whatever messages are being sent to him. telling himself he still needs more time to prepare, even though he knows he should be scrambling to l’manburg and on his knees begging for forgiveness of anyone who would listen. 

his lips are dry and his stomach is churning although it doesn’t even register as he stares at the figures occupying the living room.

he sees tommy and tubbo sleeping soundly sprawled on the couch, tubbo’s legs thrown over tommy’s knees, both of them wearing expressions so peaceful he’s scared to make a tiniest move as if to not wake them up (even if tommy’s face is scrunched up in a scowl. that’s probably the most peaceful he can do).

wilbur can’t feel himself getting up and tucking them into two spare blankets that are always around in cases just like this one, smiling softly at those boys who are finally resting after everything that keeps happening to them. he can’t feel himself going over to the kitchen once again and beginning to prepare three mugs of hot chocolate (tommy’s on one end of their sugar scale and tubbo’s on the other) and happily humming whatever tune he came up with last night.

but he can’t refute that it had happened and it was real, undeniably true in the swirls of lies that keep attacking him from nowhere and everywhere. it’s the kind of domestic life that he craves right now and, on god, how much he regrets ever ruining it. 

wilbur doesn’t remember his reasoning for making the entire nation fall apart. maybe there wasn’t any reasoning at all and he’s just a crazy idiot who one day decided to get rid of every ounce of happiness he’s ever had. it’s weird, thinking about himself in that way, like he’s a stranger to be rated and ranked based on how horrible he was. 

none of it should matter. the best way to deal with all of this would be to completely detach himself and either die or become a new person, a new him who would be nice and kind and never cause any trouble and only help people around him. 

and he knows he could do it, if he really wanted to. there’s those feelings keeping him in place that he still can’t fully decipher because too many pieces of the figurative puzzle are missing. like, what in the first place made him despise the world so much? was it just idiocy? some uncontrollable force? a trick of his mind? 

it’s hard to imagine that it would be a person, someone he once held close to his heart. it would be all to much of blaming everything on them and that’s exactly what wilbur is trying to avoid, and he can’t even remember most of them, at the moment. 

the clouds are gloomy outside, dragging behind each other, almost like fog that refuses to lift from wilbur’s mind. 

one day, years ago, he went on a trip with fundy. or, at least, he wanted to, before heavy rain caught them off guard and they were forced to find shelter in the closest known place — the house of one phil, wilbur’s dad. 

they stumbled through the door drenched in water, wilbur holding nine years old fundy in his arms. phil came out from the kitchen to greet them, wearing a smile that looked way too smug at the ends for wil’s liking.

“how was your little adventure?”

“terrible. shut up. get me a towel,” he groaned out. “you knew this would happen, didn’t you?” 

his dad only laughed and hid into the bathroom. 

wilbur remembers feeling mad and frustrated. at himself, at the weather, at their dumb luck, and maybe a little bit at phil for setting them up for getting absolutely soaked. he was excited for showing fundy around the areas farther away from their home, those one would deem more dangerous. and he knew fundy was, too, the kid always so eager to explore and share his findings with whoever caught his attention. 

it was disappointing, to say the least, that their plans got stomped like that. he expected fundy to be sad as well, because his son could be emotional like that, but when he looked down at where he put him to stand by himself, all he saw was a cheery grin as the kid scratched away on his wet, fluffy ears. 

“we have to do it again!” insisted fundy when phil had came back and threw a towel over his head.

“sure thing,” said wilbur, if only a little baffled. he looked up to phil with the question of why clearly written all over his face.

his dad simply laughed again. “take off your shoes and get inside. let’s make you something to warm up, alright?” 

fundy cheered and sprinted into the kitchen, almost throwing himself on of the chairs, fists already bailing in anticipation.

“god,” wilbur scrubbed a hand over his eyes. “that was so bad, dad. i hate you.”

“of course you do,” phil ruffled his hair and it was so warm, so soft, it jolted something awake in wil. “you’re doing great.”

he wanted to say something but then tommy stomped downstairs and upon seeing their arrival scrunched up his nose in a frown. “why is the kid here again?”

“like you’re one to talk,” wil huffed. “don’t insult my son, bastard.”

wilbur’s mind latches onto the small you’re doing great and thinks, mulls over it, analyzing yet emotional. because is he? would phil still look at him with the tender look in his eyes and tell him that he sees him trying and appreciates it? that he still has a chance at being good, or at least having the family he used to have?

the clouds are gloomy outside, stretching on for almost forever. maybe they bring a promise of better days to come, ones taken up by warmth and sunlight and gentle breeze that’s refreshing and not freezing. 

wilbur closes his eyes and lets himself hope.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> heeey fellow users of archiveofourown dot org on this day that is not awkward at all. how are you holding up.


	3. long ago

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> there were times when techno and wilbur used to spar in the garden of their house

it’s a bright, late spring morning and all that can be heard is the sound of wooden swords clashing against each other, along with not so soft thumps of booted feet hitting the ground. wilbur yelps as he’s pushed onto his back, sword flying far out of his reach. 

“and that’s another one for me,” techno announces smugly from where he’s standing above wil. “are you finally gonna wear the armor i prepared for you?” he sounds way too happy for someone who’s beat their brother’s ass in a duel for the ninth time in a row. 

“i don’t need your armor. you’re just being a bitch,” grumbles wilbur, not making any move to get up. instead he puts an arm on his eyes as if to shield them from the sunlight getting even more evident. 

“and you’re being a nerd,” says techno, which roughly translates to  _ you’re a fucking loser _ in his own weird way of expressing himself. there might be a bit of truth in that, even if wilbur would never admit it. techno clucks his tongue. “you asked for these lessons so you better not back out now. i have other things to do than getting you to hold a weapon properly, y’know.”

“things like what, exactly? holing up in your room and reading books? you’re not fooling me,  _ blade _ .” techno’s upraised mouth visibly twitches and wilbur thinks that he might’ve made everything worse on himself.

“alright, get up. we’re doing this until you can at least make me stumble.” he can feel techno’s eyes harden as they drill holes into his covered head. “ _ now.” _

and so wilbur picks himself up from the ground under the watchful eyes of technoblade, only if to play along with him for a while. because it’s not like he really… want the fighting lessons. he probably needs them alright (years of living on streets don’t teach you enough, as it seems), but he’s pretty sure he can manage.

on the other hand, he’s seen the way techno’s shoulders are tense when wil or tommy do as much as slam a door too strong or yell something too loudly, and his fists keep clenching and unclenching, on occasions even drawing blood that he can’t be bothered to clean until after it’s dried off. with phil out of town to help him calm down and let out some steam, he keeps all of his rage packed inside in a way that sharply turns his thoughts around, turning them into an unstoppable carousel of chaos and anger, and makes it harder to focus, shutting techno in an isolated box that slowly fills with blinding fog.

so wilbur comes up to him when he’s lonelily hoeing the ground with enough force to crack a few skulls, and says, “teach me to swordfight. with swords. one on one.” and techno only looks at him with an eyebrow raised and agrees in his usual, bored manner, adding only one snarky remark. wil can tell he’s getting excited, though. 

which brings them to a few hours later, when techno drags wilbur into the small basement that stores almost every piece of weaponry and armory that used to be used by each of them (mostly techno and phil during their world-conquering quest and countless battles). he hastily digs around until he finds three full sets of armor that he throws at wilbur at tells him to choose one.

wilbur says that he’s not wearing any of these and techno calls him a stubborn idiot. he looks more like himself as he does so, hence wil counts it as a personal win. 

and that brings them to this exact moment — wilbur heaving his breaths while on the ground, sword long lost in the midst of techno’s jarring attacks, a dissatisfied smirk that’s yet borderline cheeky on his brother’s face. 

“you wanna continue tomorrow?” asks techno in this smug tone that would usually set wilbur on fire with frustration but now only makes his heart swell in a thought of  _ thank god he’s back to normal. _

“fuck you, blade.”

said blade has the audacity to simply laugh and outstretch a hand to help him up.

* * *

  
  


it’s only a matter of time before their one-sided sparring sessions become an everyday phenomenon, one that obstinately tries to make wilbur a good fighter. he’s never been a person for swords, though, and techno knows it fair well. it’s also a matter of time before tommy becomes interested in their shenanigans and decides to act as a referee for each of their duels. 

usually it goes like this: techno and wilbur go out in those bright, shining hours of a day and begin with techno correcting wilbur’s stance which seems to be wrong every time. and then, without hesitation, he starts slashing in a pace so quick wil can barely catch up (it’s pretty obvious techno just enjoys being able to stab things with almost no resistance, at that point). somewhere along the way tommy tumbles out of the house and lies down on a puffy armchair that he made phil carry to the garden weeks ago. he assesses the situation and very loudly boos at whoever is currently losing (wilbur. it’s always wilbur). the match ends when wil is sprawled on the grass, face red from the physical effort, and tommy’s boisterous cackles along with techno’s huffing are the only sounds breaking the silence.

he’s never realized how fragile it all was. 

years later, wilbur sits in the very same armchair that tommy used to occupy so often and thinks,  _ in the end it doesn’t mean anything, does it? _

because no matter how many times has techno shown him correct stances and methods, he’s never even considered using them for his own good. instead, he jumped at a first occasion to use someone else for doing the dirty work. calling techno to pogtopia and making him collect resources, fight and wreak havoc when he just sat and watched as his world burned, never once showing a sign of sincere appreciation. 

it makes him sick, how everyone went along with it. using his brother as something to be taken advantage of and then thrown aside. it makes him even sicker how he was the one who started it. 

the garden looks grey and sad with no tommy to shout encouragements or obnoxious insults, or techno to snarl at them both in a way that didn’t necessarily mean  _ shut up or this axe will go straight through your teeth.  _ there’s no one to fill in the blanks of  _ what has happened to make me like that? _ and wilbur is so, so scared it will always stay like that. so empty and lonesome, an abandoned memory that’s something you look back on in your deathbed. he wants to know, even if the truth would make him crumble.

it looks haunted, to an extent. maybe by the ghosts of their past, or perhaps the weight or their sins that heaves over them. 

he thinks that if he ever gets to see techno again, he’ll try his to show his brother that he’s more than a weapon, that his feelings matter nevermind if they’re positive or negative. maybe wilbur will challenge him to a sparring session, just for the old times’ sake. he’ll hold a sword like sixteen-years-old self did and let techno correct him as much as the man will want, and maybe tommy will tag along, too. maybe they’ll pretend to be a family for one last time, all if the fate lets him have at least that. 

(one day the grass will become green again, every morning getting wet with dew. flowers will bloom just like they used to, springing into blues and yellows and pinks that seem to color the world. it’ll go back to the way it had been when life was more carefree and secure. 

wilbur doesn’t have to know that just yet, though.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> heellooo thank u all for reading ! i just realized how chaotic the entire work is getting because i have a lot of ideas that are starting to contradict each other and i need to think on them some more. shit happens i guess


	4. in the past

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> somehow, niki's bakery has always been a good place for connecting.
> 
> slight tw: fundy cuts himself with a kitchen knife, brief anxiety

the smell of freshly baked dough wafts through the entire building as niki picks up a sheet full of unfilled tartlets and brings it over to the countertop wilbur is sitting at. fundy absent-mindedly picks on a loose thread of his sweater next to him, leg bouncing up and down in what he supposes is anticipation. 

“we should wait for them to cool off a bit,” says niki, indicating to the steam that lazily floats above the pastries. she sneaks a look at both wil and fundy, the latter who seems to be completely out of this world and the former who’s glaring at her in almost a pleading manner. “fundy, can you get the filling, please? it’s in this black bowl in the fridge.”

the boy nods and scatters over to where the kitchen door stands. as soon as he’s gone, niki shoots a contemplative eyeful at wilbur. “is something the matter?” she asks, ever so gently, never pushing him to respond. 

“i’m not sure. he’s just been stressed lately, and i don’t know why,” he shrugs helplessly. he hates the feeling of being unable to help his own son, especially when fundy keeps shutting him out. he’s worried it might be something more than the  _ teenage angst _ phil had warned him about. 

“and you want me to tell you what’s going on,” concludes niki, because she’s always been good at reading him like that. he thinks it’s a rather good thing, even if it makes him vulnerable. 

“kind of…?”

he only receives a sigh in response. “wil, i can’t go around telling you things fundy has trusted me with and solving your problems for you. aren’t you supposed to be the older, more responsible one?”

instead of immediately replying, he sets his head on the table and loudly groans. “i don’t remember ever agreeing to being responsible in my entire life.”

“you probably did when you fucked around and had fundy,” niki scrunches up her nose, but there’s still a smile gracing her lips.

before he can say anything else, fundy enters their sitting area once again, one hand carrying the black bowl and the other one holding a spoonful of niki’s filling. “not sweet enough,” he says around the cream in his mouth. 

“fundy, you do the chopping,” niki ignores the boy as she takes the filling from him and shoves a box of whole fruits into his arms, “just remember to wash those, and your paws. and be careful with a knife,” she adds with a barely hearable smirk in her words. fundy’s cheeks puff out in semi-embarrassment. he’s not the one to admit his own frailties, such being his incompetence with kitchen knives and utensils of any kinds, given how clumsy his big paws prove to be.

“wil, you put cream on the tartlets,” she moves on to her soon-to-be president whose head is still laying on the countertop, eyes closed and posture resigned. “it wasn’t a request.”

“alright, and what will  _ you  _ do then?” asks fundy, words trying to be sharp way too hard as his voice cracks at the end. 

“i need to prepare the bakery for tonight. you two don’t cause too much ruckus.” niki ties her blonde hair into a high ponytail and undoes her apron, setting it down next to them. in the next second she’s already sweeping floors in another room, leaving a father and a son in an uncomfortable silence. 

wilbur gets to work not long after. filling the pastries with an adequate amount of cream, just like niki has taught him before, all the way back when their friendship still wasn’t fully developed and they stumbled in their words around each other, making awkward small talk and forcing out laughs. he can’t imagine being so uptight with her now, though. after everything they’ve been through together, it’s nearly unimaginable to place her somewhere among his acquaintances-gone-strangers. maybe that’s a part of why he’s so proud to call her his best friend, now (and forever, as he hopes). 

out of a corner of his eyes he sees fundy fumbling around with the knife, doing his best to keep the fruit pieces the same size and, first and foremost, not drop the tool from his deathly grip. wil poorly hides his chuckle behind a cough and hears fundy huff out in annoyance, and that’s when things around him inwardly shatter.

the kind of silence they’re in is the suffocating kind, the one that’s so quiet it starts ringing in your ears after a while, making you painfully aware of your own heart pounding so hard it might just about explode from your chest. wilbur isn’t sure how much longer he can stand in this intoxicating tranquility that fills him to the fullest with thoughts of  _ how much does he hate me now,  _ and  _ have i really been such a bad father,  _ but even the image of breaking the quiet now makes him spiral even more, so he waits for a suitable opening and hopes he doesn’t fuck everything up. 

they continue in the same manner for another minutes or be it hours until there’s a clashing sound, fundy hisses out a “fuck!” and wilbur’s head snaps in his direction, quick as a lightning. 

there’s a gash on fundy’s paw, blood pooling out of it and coating his fur in sticky layers. wilbur doesn’t ask how did he manage to cut himself so deeply on a plain kitchen knife and instead dashes for the shelf where niki’s first aid kit is hidden and yelps when he hits a square corner of a countertop. 

getting the disinfectant and bandaids passes in a fog that momentarily surrounds wilbur’s mind, made out of shaky whispers and yelling along the lines of _oh god oh god he’s hurt help him right now make sure he’s okay_ _don’t let him be hurt—_

“let me see,” he asks in a voice that’s close to pleading but too casual to be called begging, forcibly stopping himself from spiralling even further. when he doesn’t receive any refusal, he lets his own hand carefully pull fundy’s uninjured paw away from where it was tightened around the cut. he starts cleaning the wound as fast as possible with how jittery his arms are feeling, the hot panic that’s seizing him wholly stopping any train of rational thinking. 

he tries three differently-sized bandaids before he finds one that fits (and doesn’t detach from the fur after a few minutes). 

throughout the entire ordeal, fundy sits in one place, the only sign of him still being here are owlishly blinking eyes. he snaps from his closeted mindspace when wilbur takes a cautious step back. 

“i could’ve done that myself,” he grumbles, once again in his nervous yet alert behaviour from earlier.

“i know,” answers wilbur earnestly, because there’s not much more to it and it seems appropriate. and then, because he didn’t think his words through: “has something been bothering you?”

fundy shrugs. he doesn’t look like he wants to talk about whatever is his problem, but wilbur’s gaze is piercing holes in his head and so he gives up. “it’s— i’ve been thinking, recently. about mom.” he cuts wil off before the man can say anything. “we haven’t seen her in a while, is all. and i miss her, kinda, you know.”

his son was never the best with words, especially those expressing his troubles, and wilbur appreciates the effort even more than normally. in response, instead of heartfelt words he would offer on any other occasion, he does the other thing he knows how to do well: walk up to fundy and wrap his arms around him, chin prepped up on the crown of fundy’s head, right between his upright ears.

none of them speak for a while. not as fundy finally breaks and hesitantly grabs at wilbur’s crumpled shirt and hides in his chest, letting out a heavy sigh. 

“we can go visit her some other day. or invite her to come here, i’m sure she would love to see how your new place is holding up.” he mutters. everything feels lighter somehow, now that fundy had opened up to him in at least this aspect. he gets a hum in return and doesn’t say anything else after that. 

niki comes back after a few hours and sees them in the very same position; wilbur stands above fundy, engulfing him in a tight hold as fundy’s paws grasp at wil’s shirt helplessly from where he’s sitting on a barstool. the tartlets are left undone, a spoon still with cream on it thrown to the side. she smiles and leaves the room. her pastries can wait a while more, as it seems. 

it’s a scary thing to remember that day. of course he’s happy his memory keeps coming back, with each day on a faster pace, but every single piece of his past connects to another one and they create a story about him that makes his stomach churn in a terrifying realization of just how bad, how horrible he must be.

along with memories, feelings come back to him, too. there’s pure happiness and carefree bliss but also regret and guilt, all mixed with uncontrollable anger and craving for power. 

with that day comes sadness and panic thrown in somewhere. they remind of him of how he’s betrayed his best friend and his son, completely stomped on them on his way to the never achieved success. 

niki hasn’t ever done anything to deserve the way he treated her in the end. he’s neglected to care about her own feelings and wants for the sake of what he needed to get on top. and even when he did all of that, pushing her farther away with each day, he clung to the belief that she wouldn’t leave because she’s always cared too genuinely and loved too deeply. 

and fundy, who he never managed to raise in the fullest. his life, as busy as it was for president of l’manburg, would give him enough time to spend time with people he loved or, as his presidency went on, people he needed to keep his position. now, looking back at this era of his life he can see how he drifted away from fundy, the gap between them growing bigger and more impassable with each situation when his son came to him to talk or even simply hang out around him and he just dismissed him, sending him to bother someone else.

they made their own political party together and instead of supporting them, he ignored their efforts and mercilessly chided coconut2020 for what they’ve done wrong during the election. and then when, after everything, they still wanted to help him and tommy out, he gave them the cold shoulder and refused their support and useful sources from schlatt because he couldn't even bring himself to trust them, the two people who would never betray him (or so he hopes). 

he’s… not sure if he can ever look them in the eye again. he knows for sure he doesn’t deserve that, at least. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this one came out more dialogue-heavy than i intented and also im not sure whats on anymore please help. thank u for reading and i hope u enjoyed !
> 
> also if this chapter seems out of place or something its probably because it was supposed to be one with the next chapter but i decided to separate them,, just because


	5. and someday soon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> who knew that wilbur's symphony could lead to his ultimate fall?

the camo van is filled with faint smoke rising from the brewing stand where different kinds of potions are being made. it would be suffocating if it wasn’t for the fact that after all this time of being in the same position wilbur got used to it. 

the nearest stand lets out a quiet  _ pop! _ and he walks over to it, looking down at three bottles filled with potions of leaping that tommy was in charge of making— 

or rather, three seemingly mundane potions that are now mocking him from their shiny glass bottles.

“tommy,” he calls, not moving an inch, hand clenching around a potion a little harder than it should. the boy’s head peaks out from behind the backdoor “did you add the nether wart?” he sees tommy quickly duck into the other room and sighs. “for god’s sake, these weren’t even for me. take care of your own stuff, child.” 

at that the boy all but jumps out once again, clear annoyance already on his face. “hey, dickwad, i didn’t even ask you for help. i can look after my stuff just fine—”

“is that why this stand over there is nearly burning?”

“don’t interrupt me when i’m— OI, WHAT THE HELL!” he screeches and almost smashes a box of bottles in the process of running up to the stand which is, in fact, near setting on fire. he hastily throws open a window and tries to shoo away the arising smoke. wilbur watches him with maniacal laugh as his hands unconsciously start clapping with glee. 

it’s not that tommy is bad at brewing — quite the opposite, actually. he might not be the best or even anywhere near the best in their humble borders of dream smp but he knows his stuff, especially potions that prove to be useful to him. he’s just been rather scatterbrained as of lately and wilbur, as the great big brother he is, instead of talking the problem out, is simply going to poke fun at tommy until he breaks and spills what’s bugging him. 

because whilst wilbur  _ does  _ care, he’s not going to make tommy talk about it if he really doesn’t want to. and there are more important matters at his hand than trying to become a child’s (a very competent one as well) problem-solver. he’s here to provide freedom, not become some sort of a savior for his people. 

...he inwardly chastises himself for referring to tommy as one of his citizens and nothing more. 

when all is done and both of them are once again sitting on the quickly organized space of a table, tommy fuming with impatience, his legs kicking up every few seconds to punctuate his nonverbal point. 

“does it have to take so long to make?” he whines, sneaking another look at the running brewing stand where new potions are bubbling, this time with nether ward added beforehand. 

“maybe it would already be done if you didn’t fuck it up,” says wilbur, pressing his back up against the van’s walls.

“bitch.”

“idiot child.”

“jesus, do you ever shut the fuck up!”

and that’s when tubbo decided to pop into the vehicle with his usual mischievous cheerfulness, the green button-up even more disheveled than everyday. “big t, you won’t believe what i just saw— oh, hey wilbur mr. president.” he emphasizes his greeting with a quasi-formal nod. wil returns it, ever the polite one. “can i…”

“grab tommy? go on ahead. i don’t want him here anyway.”

the boy in question doesn’t get a chance to bark something at wilbur before he’s snagged away by a very enthusiastic tubbo, and then wilbur is left all alone in the still smokey van, the sound of potions slowly brewing creating a distraction for his still messy thoughts. 

he stays there until every potion tommy had wanted to make is ready to use, neatly stocked in a secure box that shouldn’t get knocked over by clumsy moves. 

hours later, after tommy has already run off with tubbo to do their own wacky thing, wilbur sets his steps in the direction of l’manburg’s closed walls. he climbs high at the very top and looks over his creation. it’s bustling with life, just like he wants it to be.

if someone told him to name the most important thing in his life as for then, he thinks he would say,  _ l’manburg, of course. it’s my home and biggest symphony, one that i will always be proud of.  _

he looks on his people staying determined through every hardship that hits their nation, those who keep smiling in the eyes of pain and death because they know they’re fighting for a bigger cause, and his heart swells with pride at the thought that something _ he  _ had created from mere scrap is bustling with life. a dominant part of him wants to keep it like that forever, pass his great  accomplishment to his successor who would care for the country with as much passion as wilbur did. 

(the other part of him, one that’s hidden deeper in the farthest corners of his mind, wants to keep l’manburg for himself only, even if that means taking it down with him. it’s the same part of his mind which makes him push people away and force a shift in power from those lowly citizens to him, carrying him higher and higher up, all while he keeps the same cold smile fetched into his face.

he buries it and tries to stray away from its ideals so horrible they send shivers down his spine, but in the end it always comes back.

after some time, he learns to live with it in peace).

years that separate him from that day make him think that maybe the answer is closer than he thought at first, as to why he had turned out like… this, before phil killed him. maybe it’s the fact that he’s been neglecting the growing desire for power that ultimately made him dismiss every ounce of emotion known to a man. maybe the circumstances have had him become an authority-hungry maniac who easily dismissed those that wouldn’t be useful to him, never once trusting anyone, not even himself. 

wilbur’s wanted to protect the nation he’d made and he lost everything in the process. his family, his friends and his life — his love and happiness. he failed to keep l’manburg safe the moment the election results came in and with a dreadful realization he understood  _ nothing is going to be the same anymore _ . 

if l’manburg wasn’t gone when schlatt took over as president, wilbur was surely the one to wipe it away with his selfishness.

and even knowing this, knowing that he was the one who made his country fall, he still has the ridiculous, unconscious need to make it great again. he thinks, that if he’s given the chance, he will protect the remains of it with everything he’s got. 

but then he thinks of oh his dear tommy, who believed in him no matter what and always stood by his side even as wilbur slowly descended into insanity, even as he tricked and manipulated his younger brother, not even faltering when he summoned techno to their side and then kept using and using and using him until there was only bitterness left.

it doesn’t really help that he has no idea what’s currently going on in dream smp, seeing how phil’s never told him anything. he could probably use the communicator left by his dad a few days ago but he’s still so scared of what reactions are awaiting him.

* * *

(on the other side of the universe, a person stands above a country finally thriving as a new hope appears on its horizon. they look down on a nation that’s filled with lies, broken promises, betrayals, loneliness, and they swear they will put an end to it. swear they will have it bare and weak when they set it aflame. swear they will let it burn to ashes that no one can recover. 

even if it kills them.) 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aand thats it for now ! im gonna move onto how lmanburg is doing in the next works but im not sure when ill be able to write them. im a busy person u see. as usual thankuu all for reading :]

**Author's Note:**

> hello ...... there wont be many chapters and ill keep updating tags til the end probably ............ so please be mindful of them. im not planning on writing anything graphic or overly triggering here but i dont want anything bad to happen to anyone reading :]


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